A Day Out With the Morgan Boys
by Iona Nineve
Summary: "It's less morbid than it sounds, I promise." Jo spends the day with Henry and Abe, a part of their strange world now. Mostly light fluff. One-shot.


**This was something that was bouncing around in my head for awhile and it kinda grew when it hit paper.**

 **I own nothing.**

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A Day Out With the Morgan Boys

It was late, and Jo had had a few more drinks than she should have. As they made their way out she felt Henry's arm supporting her unsteady steps. Outside on the sidewalk, she dug in her pocket for her keys, which once retrieved were promptly removed from her possession by Henry.

"Now, Jo, you shouldn't drive. I've seen enough car accidents caused by alcohol. You wouldn't have believed France in the 1920's, where by the way I learned never to get into a car driven by Scott Fitzgerald. I've called a taxi to take us to the shop."

"Why don't you just- Scott? You mean like F. Scott Fitzgerald?" She asked, her stupor temporarily broken by this reference to acquaintance.

"Yes, I met them in France." Then he turned the conversation to the unfinished question. "I would drive you, but I haven't driven in 37 years." She let out a loud laugh at his confession, as the cab pulled up.

Awakening on the couch in the apartment above Abe's Antiques, she couldn't recall how exactly she'd gotten there. The smell of a simple breakfast reached her and she followed it to the kitchen. Just as he entered she was assailed by the brightness of the room and let out a groan of pain.

"Good morning, Detectives. Pot of coffee on the stove, and there's some painkillers as well."

She went to these items with thankful speed. "Bless you." She thanked turning back to them in time for the toaster to expel its contents. Neither paying the other any attention, both men reached for the toast nearly as soon as the device rung. Separately yet simultaneously the proceeded to butter their respective slices and take a bite, as they in unison flicked open their sections of the newspaper and began to read. This sight left her in a state of awed amusement. "Do you two know you do that?"

"Do what?"Henry asked, honestly and completely clueless to their identical actions.

"You… you… You've never noticed, either of you?" The father and son shared a confused look then returned their baffled gazes to Jo. "You eat in unison."

At this revelation Henry gave his son a curious glance, under which the man shrunk in reddening embarrassment. "I didn't know I still did that."

The confession prompted a bout of laughter from Henry. "Abraham!" he laughed.

"Wait. What?"Asked Jo, knowing she was missing something.

A reminiscent smile still lit his face. "When Abe was little he would mimic me as we ate breakfast before he went to school. I stopped noticing it after awhile, and assumed he'd grown out of it."

"So had I, it became habit I guess." Abe added sheepishly.

Jo smiled, silently contemplating how adorable the whole thing was.

She remained for a few hours; being regaled with stories of very young Abe, often reciprocated with more recent tales of Henry.

Eventually it occurred to her that she was still wearing what she'd worn the previous day. "As enjoyable as this is, truthfully. But I'm gonna go home and clean up." She honestly regretted leaving, she'd been enjoying herself immensely with the pair of old men. And so she was secretly relieved when Henry offered an alternative suggestion.

"You could, if you wish to stay, freshen up here and run your clothes through the wash."

"It's a modern washer and dryer right?" She asked, meaning by it an answer in the affirmative to his offer.

"We don't live entirely in the Dark Ages, Detective."

"Only mostly." Abe added, gaining him a short appreciative chuckle from Jo muchless appreciative look from Henry.

"Alright, I'll take you up on that offer." When she returned, dressed in her freshly laundered clothes and her hair still damp from the shower, she found both men in the kitchen. Abe studiously packed a picnic basket with the food set out on the counter. "Going on a picnic?"

"Yeah. We're having lunch at mom's grave. Why don't you join us?" Abe asked rather abruptly.

Before she could answer, Henry interjected."It's less morbid than it sounds, I promise. And I do wish you'd come."

"Sure. The food certainly looks good."

On the way she became increasingly confused as they appeared not to he headed toward any of the city's cemeteries. The feeling peaked as the car pulled up to the shore of the East River. Before exiting, having noticed her befuddlement, Henry explained. "Her remains were cremated and released into the river."

"Are you two going to help me or not?"

With an uncharacteristic eye-roll Henry called back. "We're coming, Abe."

The two helped remove all the picnicking supplies, including the surprisingly heavy oversized basket. Henry went immediately to the overlook, while Jo stayed behind to help Abe unpack. One of the first items he removed was a bouquet mostly of daisies but with a few hellebores, handing it to her be motioned with a nod for her to take it to Henry. She settled against the rail next to him. "Abe told me to give you these." She held the bouquet out for him, he accepted it without meeting her eye. "I can't even imagine how you dealt with that case. When Sean died I could barely look at anything of his."

"All those years… thirty. I suppose I always knew she was gone, but I always hoped she might still be alive. All that time I prayed she would come back, she was already dead."

"At least you know now."

"Yet I can't help feeling in someway responsible."

"You can't possibly. That's like me feeling that if we hadn't fought that night Sean wouldn't have died."

"It was my job, my responsibility, as a husband to protect her. And I couldn't, I wasn't there for her. She died alone and frightened."

Throughout this dialogue he had been plucking at the daisies, pulling petals off in sequences of thirty as though counting off the years since Abigail's disappearance. 1985, 1986, 1987… A parade of white petals followed the current downstream. All that remained of the bouquet were the few hellebores, which he kissed then released as a bundle into the river.

"From what you've told me, she seemed like a wonderful woman." She prompted, hoping to lighten his sinking mood.

A reminiscent smile crept onto his face. "She was." Then, his face and mood brightening, he added. "What other kind could put up with me for forty years?"

"Lunch is ready!"Abe called.

Henry took a deep breath then responded, his voice no longer tight with suppressed emotion. "Be right there."

Turning around to rejoin the picnic they saw the blanket laid out, almost entirely covered in foods. "Wow, no wonder it was so heavy. How'd you get all that in the basket?"

"Practice, lots of practice. Dig in!"

"I don't know where to start." Jo laughed.

"I suggest the blueberry scones." Henry said, reaching for the plate.

"You would." She retorted, reached for a plate of fried chicken.

"Did you pack the tea, Abe?"

"Of course I packed the tea." Abe answered, faking insult.

"You bring tea to picnics?" Asked Jo, incredulously.

"Well, yeah. We're a British family. What we be without tea?"

"You know I've been meaning to ask you about that." Jo said, waving the half-eaten chicken leg as she spoke. "Henry and Abigail were both English. So how did you, growing up with their accents, end up sounding like a New Yorker?"

"You know, I have no clue." Abe answered. "I probably picked it up sometime after I moved out, I guess."

"As a boy and even a teenager he hadn't developed the accent yet." Henry added.

"You must've had a very interesting childhood."

"Interesting isn't the half of it." Abe answered, before taking a sip of the tea he had just poured.

"It was a rather interesting experience on end as well."

"I don't know what you mean, I was a perfect child." Abe responded to his father's statement.

"Abraham, you were a wonderful child, but you were far from perfect. If my appearance wasn't incapable of change, I would've been entirely grey by the time you ten."

After a bout of laughter all around, they spent a few minutes in comfortable silence as they ate. "I know I was drunk at the time but I seem to remember you mentioning knowing F. Scott Fitzgerald?"

"Indeed. I did. It was 1924, Scott was working on his novel, The Great Gatsby, spent most of his time locked away. Zelda was a delightful woman, very spirited; a shame what became of her. Scott's tendency toward drink is not exaggerated, and as I said a horrific driver while intoxicated. His later friendship with Ernest didn't improve things."

"Oh. Have you told her about Hemingway?" Abe said excitedly.

"You knew Hemingway too?"

"This man right here has a story about every historical figure you can think of."

"Now Abraham, you know that's not true. But yes, Jo, I was acquainted with Ernest Hemingway."

"Acquainted?"

"By which he means, has an utter hatred for because of a girl. Henry doesn't own a single copy of any of the man's books."

"However, I did at one time possess an autographed first edition copy of Farewell to Arms."

"What happened to it?" Abe asked curiously, never having heard this part of the tale.

"I may, not entirely by accident, have set it fire." He was met with a pair of quizzical and expectant looks. "I used it as an ashtray after an argument."

"You smoked?" Abe accused. "You were ready to kill me when you thought I had."

"No, I did not. It was his cigarette."

"You set an autographed first edition Farewell to Arms on fire in front of Ernest Hemingway with his own cigarette!" Jo summarized in amazement.

"Not one of my proudest moments, but I don't regret it."

The day progressed into the evening in comfortable conversation, ending in a home cooked dinner on the roof. At the end of the night she was struck with the sense of inclusion. She had been accepted into this unconventional family.

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 **PS: If you were wondering about the part about the accents, listen closely to little Abe in the flashbacks, you'll hear it.**


End file.
